


Words and Tears

by summer_days_winter_nights



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-28 22:30:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10840782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summer_days_winter_nights/pseuds/summer_days_winter_nights
Summary: In which words and tears figure heavily!





	Words and Tears

**Author's Note:**

> Please observe the homage to the wonderful trilogy (The Last Drop, The Temper Between, The First Trip) by the wonderful Phyona. Hope you enjoy!

"Sherlock,” John gasped, “Oh. God. Yes” punctuating each word with a groan deep in his throat. Six days into this. This was the fifth time they’d had intercourse, the second time he’d bottomed, the fourteenth time they’d shared orgasms, and the thousandth time he’d thought about kissing Sherlock. But who was counting?

Now they were in Sherlock’s bed, (what used to be Sherlock’s bed), but they’d had sex in every room of the flat already, against and on top of all the surfaces John had ever imagined them against or on top of, and a couple he had not. (“The stairs up to my bedroom? Really?”) Sherlock leaned over him now, his forearms on either side of John’s head, a look of such passion, longing (and love?) in his eyes, gently rocking into him, groaning as he seated himself deeper and deeper into John’s body.

“God, you feel good,” Sherlock panted, his mouth only inches from John’s. “I’ll never get used to this.”

“Jesus” John moaned, his ankles locked around Sherlock’s waist, his cock stiffening with each thrust, his eyes rolling back with the intense pleasure of their bodies joined in this way. “You see what you do to me?” he asked.

Like everything with Sherlock, sex was intense. There was no forgetting where you were, no spacing off wondering where you’d left your umbrella, no doubting if your partner was paying attention to you. John reminded himself that this could be a bit of a honeymoon period, where the electricity between them could have lit a city block, where they felt magnetically pulled toward the other if they were within five meters of each other, where it was hard to think when the other was in the room. Sherlock applied the same platinum level of concentration to making love to John that he would to a corpse, a wall full of clues, the tells of his suspect. John felt entranced, his mind focused, his cock responsive and throbbing, and every cell in his body open, listening, feeling for Sherlock.

Sherlock reached back and canted John’s hips slightly more off the bed.

“Oh God,” Sherlock moaned. “Fuck, there, there…”

“ _I love you_ …” John’s mind shouted, but his mouth (thank you very much) stayed shut. As long as his mind was having a go, he let it run.“ _You’re the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. You’re my whole world. You’re so perfect.”_ John’s mind went on and on, as John’s cock was reeling from the outrageous, delicious, breathtaking pressure of Sherlock’s belly against it. John’s mouth stayed shut, but his eyes gave him away, when just the tiniest of tears welled to the surface.

Sherlock, staring intently at John, when he wasn’t moaning his name into his ear, or kissing his temple, noticed immediately. His face clouded, his rhythm slowed. “What?” he asked.

John grabbed Sherlock’s arse and began forcefully rocking into him, his whole being demanding to reconnect with the interrupted sensation. “Jesus, don’t stop, don’t stop” John panted. “I’m fine; I’m perfect. I’ll tell you later.”

Sherlock smiled his small, knowing smile. “You are perfect” he said, regaining his rhythm with renewed intensity.

There was a rumble John felt when he was closing in on coming. Did Sherlock feel such too? His breath became even more shallow; the ecstasy of going toward this inevitable crescendo, while not quite being there, in the neighborhood of the divine, knowing you’d arrive soon. Such bliss. “God, Sherlock, I’m close,” his breath coming in fast bursts; “so close.”

“Fuck…” Sherlock’s brow seemed to furrow, beginning to become undone by the sensation. “John- me too,” Sherlock gasped, his face started slacken in the beautiful way that it did, making John’s heart pound.

Sherlock reached one hand down, cupping John’s cock, impossibly intensifying his pleasure. “God, yes,” John panted. Sherlock ran his hand over the head, slick with pre-cum, and stroked masterfully down the shaft. Once, twice, was all he could stand; everything broke loose in the doctor. “Ah, ah, ah,” John shouted (not his most poetic), his legs shuddering as he pushed himself into Sherlock’s hand and belly, cum shooting over both of them. John’s pulsing around Sherlock’s cock was the final push for him. “Jesus, John, God, God..” he moaned, coming hard, so hard.

Sherlock let himself drop heavily, as they both lost use of their muscles, sinking into each other and the bed. _“That’s the best thing I ever felt..”_ Sherlock thought, but his mouth stayed shut.

Sherlock pulled gently out of John, and buried his face in his neck. John’s breath sounded like he’d just stopped running. “Jesus,” he laughed the laugh Sherlock loved the sound of. “How did I get on without this in my life? What in the hell did I do?” he mused, in (almost) mock disbelief. “What did I care about? I’m just not sure,” he went on, pulling the detective close to him. “You are just so marvelous,” he said, and Sherlock raised his head, his small smile widening just slightly, his eyes shining.

“You are very good at saying things like that,” Sherlock whispered, kissing John gently on his forehead, nose, jaw. “I’ll try to get better”

“Things like what?” John asked, almost, but not quite certain what Sherlock meant.

“Things where you say what you feel, how I matter to you,” Sherlock said, hiding his face again in John’s neck. They both sighed.

After a minute. “So the tears…” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

John pursed his lips and cleared his throat, not sure how much of that he wanted to get into right now. “Well,” he started, looking at the ceiling. “I just feel very grateful for you some times. Do you ever have that, where you feel moved by something I do, and just feel grateful?”

“All the time,” Sherlock said simply. He smiled ruefully. “I just don’t do tears.”

“You _do_ do tears,” John scoffed gently. “Everyone does tears some time.”

“Yes, well, I have to be pretty miserable.”

“When’s the last time you had a good cry?” John asked, raising up on his elbow to look down at his lover. He was worried he might be pushing things a bit, but he sallied forth nonetheless.

“Hmm,” Sherlock looked at the ceiling. “Uni.”

“Ah- man of few words, are you?” John said quietly, curious, careful. “What was going on then?’

“Well,” Sherlock shifted on the bed and pulled slightly away from John. “Probably lonely.”

“Yeah, I was lonely at uni too. Wish I’d been with you then. Could have kept you company,” John said, leering and grinding his hip into Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock smiled wryly and turned to wrap his arms around John and bury his head in his chest. “There are few eras in my life that I do not wish you were a part of. I would have liked for them to have plopped you in the crib next to mine at the hospital where I was born.”

“See!” John beamed. “That’s a lovely thing for you to say,”

“Hardly. Factual, self serving, even. How you would have weathered all those years, I have no idea. Indeed, you might have run screaming into the night when we were fourteen.” John rolled his eyes and tightened his grip around Sherlock’s neck.

“Yes,” John continued, “meeting in the nursery—now that would have been something. I wonder if you were some kind of brilliant baby, that would have been standing and running and climbing on things when the others of us were just rolling over.” John chortled at his own joke. “Wait a minute, “ he said. “Baby pictures! We are going to your folks’ place next weekend, aren’t we? Ring up Mummy Holmes and tell her to drag out all the baby pictures! Yes- that will be a fantastic way to get to know you.” John practically clapped his hands in delight.

“Hmmmm,” Sherlock pretended to think. “No,” he said flatly, “not a good idea.”

“You can’t stop me,” John said in a teasing voice, rolling Sherlock onto his back and kissing his forehead. “You can’t. I’ll ask her myself when we get there, and she will say yes.” John was positively gleeful and it was Sherlock’s turn to roll his eyes.

John thought. “You don’t have any pictures here, do you?” he asked.

“Boy, you’re on this picture kick, aren’t you?” but Sherlock seemed to think. “I do have one here,” he said, almost shyly.

“You do? You’ll show me?” John’s eyes widened with his smile. “Go get it, mister!” and he slapped Sherlock’s arm playfully.

Sherlock harrumphed but obeyed, sitting up, swinging his legs off the bed.

But John got distracted in a way he should have predicted. It was about half four in the afternoon, and the light slanted into their bedroom, bathing everything, including his gorgeous boyfriend, in dramatic shafts of light. The sight of his flatmate’s nude form, seemingly ready made for classrooms full of art majors to sketch, made him catch his breath. For all of the cavorting they’d been doing, not all of it was completely naked, and besides the two times they’d made love in the shower, John hadn’t gotten such a picture perfect view of Sherlock’s body. Beautiful was an understatement.

Sherlock knelt down in front of his dresser and began carefully taking out what he found in the lowest drawer. “Hmm,” he said, biting his lip. He could have been as casually sorting through apples at the Tesco as he was stationed naked on his floor. A self-conscious thought seemed to have never been born in his head, and he moved with careless grace through his search.  
Such skin. John let his eyes wander lovingly up and down his back, his arse, his legs. He imagined his own hands on that skin, gently caressing, feeling every inch of smooth and rough, soft and strong, sending shivers up Sherlock’s spine. In his mind, he put his mouth everywhere, tasting every spot and hearing what sounds the detective made as he licked a pathway up and down.

“Not here, hmm” Sherlock frowned, breaking John out of his reverie.

“Its okay,” John said, his breathing shallow, almost forgetting why Sherlock was out of bed to begin with. “Just come back to bed,” he said, reaching out his hand, his pupils wide.

“Wait,” Sherlock said, pondering, unaware of the effect he was having on John. “Where’s my Grey’s Anatomy? Where is it?” he asked himself wandering thoughtfully to a stack of books on the floor.

Now John was treated to a frontal view, which wasn’t helping his breathing regulate. “My God,” he thought. “How did I get this man? _this_ man?” He shook his head. “This stunning genius wants to sleep with you,” he noted to himself, astounded by his luck. He imagined himself lightly dusting his fingers over the well muscled arms and chest, the taught alabaster skin responding to his light pressure, his tongue laving over each nipple. He remembered the first time he’d flicked his tongue on that gorgeous cock, wrapping his lips around the head, Sherlock arching his back and moaning “please…please.”

“Really,” John said out loud “just come over here,” John said, hoping he sounded less pleading than he felt on the inside.

“Ah!” Sherlock snapped up a book from one of the stacks. “Success!” He rifled through the pages and drew forth a 5 x 7 photo which he stared down at momentarily. Perhaps too late, he remembered this photo did not always have a such a good effect on him.

“Great, “John said dreamily. “But come here and let me show you something first.”

“Show me something?” Sherlock smirked. “Is it part of your anatomy?”

“Not quite,” John said, and Sherlock walked toward the bed and gracefully sat next to John, placing the photo under his pillow. “What?” Sherlock asked softly, a fond smile on this lips.

“This” John said. He turned Sherlock so that he was laying in his arms, almost in his lap, and he began kissing every part of the detective he could reach. He started off with his lips, a gentle brush, then worked his way down his throat, his shoulders, his chest. “You taste so good” John groaned between kisses.

Sherlocks breath quickened. “So you’re showing me you can get me aroused again ten minutes after I have an orgasm? Is that it?’ Sherlock moaned, starting to writhe in pleasure.

“No.” John said, spacing his words quietly between each lick, each kiss. “I’m…showing you…that…when I see….all this….gorgeous…pale…skin….that I can just reach…for you….and put…my hands on you…and my mouth…on you…and I don’t….have to ….just…sit in my chair…and… watch you…and feel like I’m dying. And that’s just the best thing.” He stopped his ministrations and sighed, smiling down at Sherlock. Sherlock gave him a wistful smile and swallowed, stroking John’s hair.

“Okay,” the doctor said, with an impish grin, gently returning Sherlock to sitting next to him. “Now I want to see the picture.”

“Uh-this really isn’t fair,” Sherlock, his arms around John’s neck, clung to him with glassy eyes. “You’re going to have to finish what you started, you know,” he said, kissing John’s neck.

“Oh, wild horses couldn’t stop me,” John said, kissing Sherlock’s lips, but backing away from him slightly just the same. “I just don’t want you to change your mind about the picture,” John persisted, and extended his hand.

Sherlock reached under the pillow, withdrawing the item. With a flick of his wrist, he handed it to John, whose eyes widened with delight. He gasped, slapping his hand to his mouth. For the second time that afternoon, tears came to his eyes.

“Again with the tears,” Sherlock said drily, rolling his eyes, secretly so very pleased to see John’s reaction.

“This is you…” John said in awe. “Wow…look at you!” He stared deeply into the eyes of the young child staring back at him.

It was a bit overwhelming. John had gone for so long impatiently standing behind the wall erected by the enigmatic detective, for a long time not even realizing how much he’d hungered to peer over the top, to pierce through the mystery and see who Sherlock actually was. And now, to be abruptly facing into this rare window onto the life of his beloved, it was almost too good to be true. But to be sure: there was Sherlock. The curly dark hair was unmistakable, the pale skin, ethereal eyes, the beginning of those cheekbones, but the face softer, rounder, the eyes open, searching, and just slightly, sad.

John practically whispered. “Hello, young man,” he said with great affection, his eyes riveted to the photo, stroking his finger over the cherubic face. “And how old might you be?”

“Six,” Sherlock intoned, very slightly raising the octave of his voice, as if he were playing along with John as his young self.

“And what are you dressed as?” John said, grinning with glee at their game.

“A pirate!” Sherlock said with the relish of a child.

“A pirate!” John repeated. “Well you look every bit the pirate, Master Sherlock,” he said, his eyes fixed on the photo.

John paused. “So, young Sherlock, you look….a little sad to me. Are you sad?”

“I’m sad,” Sherlock said sadly, continuing in the part of himself as a child, his voice soft.

“Why sad?” John asked softly, holding the picture closer still to his face, studying every detail.

“Mycroft is so mean…” Sherlock pouted.

“That Mycroft..” John said with gentleness starting to mix with tension. “I hate that he’s mean to you. I think I’ll go punch him in the nose for you” He reached his hand to hold Sherlock’s, continuing to talk to the picture.

“That would be nice,” Sherlock said, falling onto his side, seemingly lost in thought. After a moment, he said “all the other kids are mean too,” his voice hitching in his throat. “They laugh at me, and say I should go away, that I don’t fit in, that I make them mad. So I just have Redbeard to play with..” He began to cry quietly.

“Oh my dear,” John said, sliding down to lay next to Sherlock, taking him in his arms. John held the photo behind Sherlock’s head, continuing his dialogue with his beautiful boy. “Do not worry, young man. If you ever see those kids again, you point them out to me.” His voice had become hard, quiet, fierce. “I will take each one and make them sorry they were ever mean to you. And when you grow up, I’m going to move in with you, and I’m going to be your best friend, and never let you be sad again.”

Sherlock’s shoulders shook as he sobbed into John’s chest. “This is terrible,” he moaned. “I shouldn’t be like this.”

John considered what he said next. “You can be however you want with me,” he said, his voice returning to gentleness, kissing Sherlock’s shoulder.

“John,” Sherlock spat out, his body tense. “Stop talking!” he pleaded. “Everything you’re saying is making it worse!” he squeezed John tightly, and growled through his teeth, attempting to clamp down on his heart.

“Okay,” John said mildly. He had learned that there were moments like this, not usually awash in tears, but times when Sherlock was frustrated with himself, the world, everyone in his path. He’d pace the flat, clench his teeth, and shake his fist, not being able to control what he desperately wanted to. At those moments, John had learned that it was best to say nothing at all, as saying anything (“you’re being an idiot,” “you’re completely brilliant,” “Earl Grey okay?”) would just further the spiral into angry outbursts. In those moments, John would slow his breathing, try to relinquish any frustration he himself was feeling, and just send peaceful thoughts Sherlock’s way.

So that’s what he did now. Except now, miracle of miracles, he could also pull him into his embrace, meeting every anguished cell in Sherlock’s body with a calming one in his own, breathing in concert with him, stroking his hair.

And Sherlock could hug him back.


End file.
